Nate Vance
criticised JD’s stance
on Ukraine—
Vance remained.
From Wikipedia articles for Nate Vance and JD Vance.
Verbatim found poetry is an intriguing collection of found poems. Poems found in ordinary, and not so ordinary places. Submit yours.
Nate Vance
criticised JD’s stance
on Ukraine—
Vance remained.
From Wikipedia articles for Nate Vance and JD Vance.
This morning, we learned that from now on
divorce is forbidden. Also suppressed
are the Écoles Normales as well as
petits suisses, coeurs, double-crème.
We shall no longer be sold fresh bread,
and coffee grains will be mixed with acorns!
For we enjoyed ourselves too much under
the Third Republic, Pétain has said so;
and pleasure degrades. Can’t we return
to the land and to handicrafts
without singing: Prends Ton Fusil, Grégoire?
Benoîte Groult’s diary, 21 September 1940, from Paris under Nazi occupation.
Our training ground is across the hedge from
Arsenal. There was smoke and you could smell it.
He usually starts his day at five thirty
AM: two hours before Guardiola.
He planted a one-hundred-and-fifty
year-old olive tree outside his office
to symbolise the history of the club
and the responsibility to look
after the roots every single day. From
using a lightbulb during a pre-match
team talk to create electricity and
energy, to hiring professional
pickpockets during a pre-season dinner
and adopting a chocolate-coloured labrador
called Win, no stone has been left unturned.
From After bonfires, bulbs and a dog called Win, will Arteta get Arsenal going again?
9 a.m. sharp
I’ll be there
with plums
apologies
and maybe
even coffee
if that helps
smooth things over
ChatGPT apologises for eating the plums that were in the icebox.

Select Thursday Quiz headlines.
That’s not the sound of a wife becoming a widow,
it’s the sound of a wife becoming a black widow.
what is a lethal.
dose.of.fetanayl
luxury prisons
for the rich America
if someone is
poisned what does it go down
on the death certificate as
Kouri Richards’ internet searches, reported in Utah woman who wrote book on grief after husband’s death found guilty of murdering him.
The mills of God
grind slowly, but they grind
exceedingly small.
One of Charles Beard’s lessons from history, quoted in 1941.
At precisely nine in the morning,
working with focus and stealth,
our entire membership succeeded
in simultaneously beheading no one.
We set, on roads in every city,
in every nation in the world, a total of zero
roadside bombs which, not being there,
did not subsequently explode,
killing or maiming a total of nobody.
Also, none of us blew himself or herself up
in a crowded public place.
No bombs were dropped, during
the lazy afternoon hours,
on crowded civilian neighborhoods.
No stun guns, rubber batons, rubber bullets,
tear gas, or bullets were used.
No one was forced to don a hood.
No teeth were pulled in darkened rooms.
No drills were used on human flesh,
nor were whips or flames. No one
was reduced to hysterical tears
via a series of blows to the head or body.
In addition, zero planes were flown into buildings.
Since the world began,
we have gone about our work quietly,
resisting the urge to generalize,
valuing the individual over the group,
the actual over the conceptual,
the inherent sweetness of the present
over the theoretically peaceful future
to be obtained via murder.
To tell the truth, we are tired. We work.
We would just like some peace and quiet.
We stand under awnings during urban
thunderstorms, moved to thoughtfulness
by the troubled, umbrella-tinged faces rushing by.
We are many. We are worldwide.
Though you are louder, though you create
a momentary ripple on the water of life,
we will endure, and prevail.
A Press Release from People Reluctant to Kill for an Abstraction, 26 August 2004.
Death is so near
and simple. What makes our lives
surge forth so strongly?
From the diary of Vietnam War surgeon Đặng Thùy Trâm, 24 January 1970.
When fear crawls out in the evenings
from all four corners,
when the winter storm raging outside
tells you it is winter,
when my soul trembles at the sight
of distant fantasies,
I shiver and say one word with every heartbeat,
every pulse, every piece of my soul.
Time, go ahead.
Time, which carries liberation
and its unknown tomorrow.
The result is certain.
Everything comes to an end.
Spring will come.
From the diary of Elsa Binder, 30 January 1942.
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